


i knew before my middle name (the grief inside)

by offbrandgizmo



Category: The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards
Genre: (and he gets one), Brand is Tired, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Max Needs A Hug, TTS Bingo Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offbrandgizmo/pseuds/offbrandgizmo
Summary: Brandon Saint John will never admit it, but he knows the kids inside out and back to front. He knows their favourite foods, he knows what makes them tick, he knows how to motivate them and how to demotivate them, and he knows what they mean to each other. And, so, he knows when one of them is upset, and he knows it immediately.(or: Max confides in Brand, and comfort ensues, and everything is going to be okay)
Relationships: Brandon "Brand" Saint John & Matthias "Max" Saint Valentine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	i knew before my middle name (the grief inside)

**Author's Note:**

> cw: implied child sexual abuse, detailed cw in end notes
> 
> title is from Lilywhite by Former Vandal

Brandon Saint John will never admit it, but he knows the kids inside out and back to front. He knows their favourite foods, he knows what makes them tick, he knows how to motivate them and how to demotivate them, and he knows what they mean to each other. And, so, he knows when one of them is upset, and he knows it immediately.

He wants to say he has a sense for these things because he considers himself the compound’s protector, and because the compound hasn’t been a _place_ for years; it’s been people. (That is to say, it includes these kids Rune keeps taking in like stray cats.) But he gets the sense there’s something a little more to it, something like a little word that starts with ‘L’—and don’t you fucking say it, thank you very much.

So, when one of his kids is upset (and sure, _especially_ when it’s Max, who has no one else to go to—but he’ll breathe those words to no one), he prides himself on recognising it immediately, because kids taken care of, he’s learned, get up to far less tomfoolery than those who’re neglected. And, by the Gods, the last thing they collectively need is any more of _that._

When Max walks in, to the average eye, there’s nothing wrong. But Brand sees it—the way he holds his centre of gravity in his upright shoulders, the way he walks slower, lighter, with none of his usual shuffle. He’s _trying_ not to look upset, and if this kid’s trying to hide it, it’s worse than the usual woes of the everyday teenager. Max isn’t above scowls, eye rolls, or slumped shoulders and dragging feet. If that had been the case, Brand could have just written it off as something less important. But his protective instincts kick in, and he could almost swear there’s something else there, too, like a thrum of anxiety. (It’s probably concern, he _definitely doesn’t_ think.)

So, he follows Max into the kitchen.

He’s been seeing someone, a professional—they all have. After recent events, and the move back into the estate, Addam had demanded it for all of them, and offered to pay for it. Rune had agreed so long as they split the costs half-half. (Gods, they probably don’t even realise they’re already rebuilding the estate like a godsdamn married couple.)

But Max hadn’t long finished his appointment, and he’d been shaken by them before, but he’d never managed to look quite so like a teenage-shaped ghost haunting their refrigerator.

Brand clicks his tongue, to make himself known—the last thing Max needs right now is to be startled—and reaches into the top of the pantry, pulling out a packet of butterscotch cookies—Max’s favourite. Max blinks. Brand raises a single eyebrow at him.

‘I’m fine,’ Max says. It’s flat, almost monotone, and has the faintest frustrated lilt of a frightened, wounded animal.

Brand crosses his arms and huffs. ‘Bull,’ he says.

Max frowns and glances down, somewhere between the floor and Brand’s feet. It’s all _but_ hanging his head, and it makes something in Brand’s chest twinge. He stifles a sigh and turns towards the door that leads into the hallway, holding up the packet in his hand as he walks away.

‘Come, or you don’t get these,’ he calls over his shoulder.

He hears a shuffle in Max’s feet as he jogs a few steps to catch up, falling into step beside Brand as he leads them down the hallway.

‘This is bribery,’ Max says, with all the air of _I’m telling Rune,_ as if Rune would be above doing the same damn thing.

Brand just smirks. ‘Yup.’ He pops the ‘p’ for good measure.

After passing a few doors, they slip quietly into the library, where Brand knows they’ll be left alone. The only one who makes frequent visits is Anna, and she and the rest of the Dawncreeks are down at the beach, at Corbie’s insistent request. The room’s not grand enough to be a popular destination, and barely even functions as a library, at that. Most of the books had been looted or damaged beyond reasonable repair, so it serves more as a storage room, if anything. Perfectly impartial, Brand thinks.

He scoffs when Max makes a pathetic attempt at snatching the cookies right out of his hand, but it does ease the frown lines Brand hadn’t realised were quite so abundant on his face as he shuts the door, holding the packet out of Max’s reach.

He points to a chair at the large table in the centre of the room. ‘Sit.’

Max visibly deflates. He doesn’t meet Brand’s eyes when Brand pulls out a chair to sit in front of him. There’s a moment of silence before Max speaks, and Brand’s chest tugs a little because even _that’s_ progress.

‘She said I need to… grieve.’ Max frowns like he doesn’t understand the word, as if it’s only the second time he’s heard it.

Brand waits.

‘She said that when you accept the way things are, like, really _accept_ it,’ there are long pauses between each phrase, as if he’s thinking hard about what he’s saying, ‘you have to grieve, like when someone dies,’ he ducks his head lower, and Brand sees a sheen over his eyes, exacerbated by the light streaming in through the large windows on the opposite wall. ‘Because when you accept it, you—you don’t have—’ Brand almost wants to tell him to take his time, but he’s saying so much he can’t bring himself to interrupt. ‘You don’t have the reality you wanted anymore.’ His shoulders slump with the finality of it, as if he’s just put down a heavy weight. Brand thinks he probably has, in a way. The faintest mumble comes in the moment of silence after, and Brand thinks it might have been more for Max than it was for him: ‘So you have to grieve it.’

Max jerks suddenly, enough to almost startle Brand, and he was so intent on Max’s shrinking form that his wrist almost flicks with the instinct to arm himself. Occupational hazard, he supposes, when it turns out Max is just sitting up straight and raises his sleeve to his eyes. He brushes it against his face, haphazardly and full of frustration. It’s almost a mirror-image of teenage Rune, and Brand wonders, not for the first time, how Max does that so often.

‘But she said grief is hard, so,’ he mumbles, louder this time, and still not looking at Brand.

And doesn’t Brand know it. He’s grieved people, he’s grieved places—hell, he’s sitting in one of the very places he grieved right now. He’s grieved things, and parts of Rune that died that day. Parts of himself, if he’s generous enough to call resignation grief. (He’s working on it, okay?)

But he can’t quite tell what the kid’s implying he’s grieving. Sure, he has a few guesses, and the obvious one would be the loss of his own family, his own places, his standing in society. But the one he’s more inclined to believe never feels any less awful than the very first day he and Rune exchanged a glance full of knowing that should never, ever have to be known, by anyone, and much less by a _child._ But Rune knows it, and Brand knows some of it by proxy, but somehow he’s still been hoping to high fuck-knows that Max wasn’t a part of that, too.

Looking at him now though, steeped in misery and probably some anger, Brand can’t keep his mouth shut. Because _he knows, doesn’t he?_ And what kind of a protector would Brand be if he couldn’t at least cushion the fall a little? Rune never got that kind of support, and Brand _knows_ he didn’t heal all the way through because of it. Sure, he had Brand, but even with how deeply Brand wanted to be enough, one person just can’t be. One person can never be enough to heal from _that._ Shouldn’t have to be.

So, he says, ‘What are you grieving, Max?’

And though Brand doesn’t expect it to happen quite so soon, or quite so quickly, Max starts to cave. It happens slowly and immediately; starts with the opening and closing of a mouth, the rise and fall of eyelids, the flooding of eyes and shaking of breath. His lips tremor, and he stares intently at a point below Brand’s chin. It’s several stammered words, false starts, different openers tried out upon his tongue and discarded, because how do you _start_ something like that without ripping several layers of skin along with the band-aid? Some things just can’t be done so fast, lest they stifle the healing, or injure further.

But it’s been so _long,_ Max thinks, that he’s been in the dark. So long held in the back of his head, so long he’s sat alone with the feeling on his skin, of dirt, of muck, of grime. She said he could tell someone. Keeping it to yourself fosters feelings of shame, even if you’re not actually ashamed, she said. _Tell someone you trust, she said._ Brand’s face is blurry on the outside of his vision. He can’t get his eyes to focus anywhere else, but this is Brand, he thinks. It tastes right, somehow, so he thinks it again, and again, thisisBrandthisisBrandthisisBrandthisisBrand, until he really _knows_ who it is. This isn’t just _someone._ This isn’t just a friend, or a psychologist he sees once a week, or a stranger. This is _Brand._ This is someone he can… maybe… maybe… maybe place a little bit of that burden on, isn’t it? That might… be okay?

Maybe?

( _ThisisBrandthisisBrandthisis—_ Brand. This _is_ Brand.)

So he inhales sharply through his nose, opens his mouth, and tries again.

The things Max tells him as the sun plays peek-a-boo with the clouds, cascading shadows over their Wednesday afternoon, are enough to make him feel murderous. But every time the anger crashes over him just a little too much, almost enough to incite him into action, he looks back at the crying kid in front of him and the tide pulls back out, leaving only an empty beach of familiar dread, guilt and sadness. It feels a little bit like he talks for hours, and Brand does nothing but let him, but it probably only takes ten minutes. After he’s good and done, he cries for a bit, and Brand sits back and lets that happen, too.

To his credit, the kid looks lighter through the exhaustion that nearly threatens to topple him off the chair when he’s done. The room stays quiet for a moment, and Brand finally breaks his silence.

‘Max,’ he says, ‘Can I hug you?’

Max looks up, finally looking him in the eyes for the first time since he intercepted him in the kitchen. The tears look almost ready to come back again, but he nods, and for a moment he looks something akin to an eager, albeit kicked, puppy—and dammit if Brand’s emotions weren’t already running rampant, if his urge to _protect_ wasn’t already dialled all the way up.

The space fills up with silent promises that what’s said in the room stays in the room, and so neither of them have to worry about anybody else finding out about how tightly Brand pulls him in, how Max hiccups quietly and grasps Brand’s shirt with so much desperation he might have stretched it. No one has to know about Brand’s hand finding its way to Max’s head, about the harsh ruffle of hair that emphasises words said soft and indisputable ( _I’m_ proud _of you),_ about the almost _fatherly_ gesture that, from where Max is standing, almost feels like lips barely pressed into his hair. (And _Gods,_ hasn’t he already cried enough?)

Brand knows Anna knows something’s up as soon as they get back, soaked and sunkissed, from being at the beach. Max’s eyes have long-since dried, but Anna’s almost as perceptive as Brand was at her age, and, still dripping and smelling of sunscreen and salt, she waltzes over and plants herself on the sofa beside Max, arms crossed as she and Brand engage in a quasi-staring contest.

Brand lets Corrine handle the chiding over the now-wet furniture as he watches Corbie trying to sneak his way back outside. He’s stopped by Layne, who scoops him up and says something Brand can’t quite hear. When he glances back at Anna and Max, Anna’s still perched firmly at Max’s side, though Brand doesn’t miss the enquiring glance she sends his way. Max gives her a soft but genuine smile, and Brand feels something loose resolve firmly in his chest. Because Max will be okay, he realises. With Rune, there was something uncertain in whether or not he would be, and though Brand would have followed him no matter where they ended up, however dark, he could only be grateful that Rune had been strong enough to come back from everything, if not quite all the way, not yet.

But Max. Hell, whether he chooses to tell anyone else or not, and whether he realises it or not, Max has a small army behind him that’ll raise hell at the drop of a hat, and Brand’s not the only one trying to keep him safe.

So, Brand lets himself breathe, a little. He takes the part of himself that is the fierce protector that sometimes goes too far and puts it away, back in its place in the back of his mind for if he ever needs it again. Right now, he doesn’t, because even if he’s not enough on his own, they’re in an estate full of others who’ll be _more_ than enough put together. And even if Max doesn’t realise that now, Brand is _confident_ that he will in the future.

And when Max’s small smile turns from Anna to the rest of the Dawncreeks, and back to Brand, Brand knows godsdamned well that that’s the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> detailed cw: after Brand, in his internal monologue, alludes to thinking something bad happened to Max, Max, in a cut-away to 'off-screen', tells Brand about what happened to him--no detailed descriptions, or any descriptions at all, really
> 
> ~~tbh i think this is really bad and i only like maybe four paragraphs i'm not sure if i should really be posting it but i am~~
> 
> Something happened to me when I was like, 4-5 years old. I've only told a very small few people in my life, because I'm still riddled with guilt and shame and doubt and disgust. And I don't know how to sit with it. I spend a lot of time thinking I'm fundamentally disgusting and irreparable and unlovable. But not all of the time. I don't think that way all of the time. And while this is definitely a vent fic, I couldn't have written this a couple of months ago when I first realised this. I've made progress. So much progress.
> 
> And maybe, just maybe, there's a universe down the line in which someone younger than me reads this fic and sees something, anything that helps them just a little. That's all I can hope.
> 
> You. You reading this right now. You are loved. Take a moment for just you and the feeling of your breath right now. Take a few nice, deep breaths. That moment belongs to no one but you. It is yours. I love you. Be safe.
> 
> P.S. This is technically my first bingo card fill, for 'grief'. I'm getting there ;)


End file.
